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<title>"Don't Pick Up, Don't Pick Up..." by clockworksilence</title>
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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/29589738">"Don't Pick Up, Don't Pick Up..."</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/clockworksilence/pseuds/clockworksilence'>clockworksilence</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Something I Can't Have [4]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>The Old Guard (Movie 2020)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>I've decided Booker is bi, Insecure Booker | Sebastien le Livre, M/M, Nervousness, and so has he, mlm, scared, so he's figuring some shit out and being predictably useless at it</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-02-20</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-02-20</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-16 01:00:14</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>General Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>701</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/29589738</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/clockworksilence/pseuds/clockworksilence</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>"Casting a sidelong look into the gas station store and once again catching the eye of an increasingly-solicitous looking attendant, Booker finally caved. Muttering to himself in French, he stuck his hand in the left front pocket of his jeans, fishing out some change. He approached the phone stand, inserted the coins and picked up the receiver. He paused for a moment, all courage threatening to leave him, pressing the back of his phone-holding hand against his forehead, closing his eyes.<br/>'You can do this', he thought, steeling himself. 'Like ripping off a band-aid'.<br/>Rummaging in his back pocket with his free hand, he pulled out the crumpled napkin, the black ink of the numbers feathered on the paper, dialled the same and held his breath."</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Booker | Sebastien le Livre &amp; Original Male Character(s)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Something I Can't Have [4]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/2179074</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>2</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>24</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>"Don't Pick Up, Don't Pick Up..."</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>He left the safe house almost an hour ago. The trip to the gas station had only taken ten minutes. He’d spent the other 30 leaning against the motorcycle, staring at the payphone, working the courage up to make the call.</p><p>He hadn’t told anyone where he was going or what he was doing. “Heading out for a while.” That’s all he’d said. The others knew better than to ask too many questions. It was relatively safe and as long as he took a side-arm, nobody would be too worried.</p><p>However, loitering overlong in a public place, actively avoiding the security cameras with a Beretta tucked into the back of his jeans, Booker definitely began to feel a little conspicuous.</p><p>He’d hoped the bike wouldn’t start. He’d “acquired” it back in 1956 and had only managed to check it every ten years or so, running maintenance on it whenever he could. Keeping it in one of the farmhouse’s outbuildings and under a sheet seemed to do the trick. Despite a little rusting on the chrome, it still ran as it did 60 years ago. <em>This thing could outlive me</em>, Booker had thought, kicking the bike into life, cursing that all the powers in the universe seemed to be conspiring together for him to pick up the phone.</p><p>Casting a sidelong look into the gas station store and once again catching the eye of an increasingly-solicitous looking attendant, Booker finally caved. Muttering to himself in French, he stuck his hand in the left front pocket of his jeans, fishing out some change. He approached the phone stand, inserted the coins and picked up the receiver. He paused for a moment, all courage threatening to leave him, pressing the back of his phone-holding hand against his forehead, closing his eyes. <em>You can do this</em>, he thought, steeling himself. <em>Like ripping off a band-aid</em>.</p><p>Rummaging in his back pocket with his free hand, he pulled out the crumpled napkin, the black ink of the numbers feathered on the paper, dialled the same and held his breath. As the rhythmic ringing tone crackled through the line, Booker wondered what scared him more: him picking up or being ghosted.</p><p>The ring tone clicked off and there was a slight scuffling on the other line; the sound of someone adjusting their cell.</p><p>“Hola?” His voice was deep, the querying tone blatant.</p><p>Booker took a moment to reply. His Spanish was not up to conversational level these days.</p><p>“Hi, Gael?” He said, finally settling on English.</p><p>“Yes?”</p><p>“It’s me. Booker. From the other night.”</p><p>He screwed up his eyes and leant his head against the Perspex screen of the booth, loathing his ineptitude.</p><p>“Oh!” The tone suddenly lightened. “Hi!”</p><p>That knocked Booker off kilter. He actually seemed glad.</p><p>“I wanted to call before...” Booker began, feeling more and more pathetic by the second.</p><p>“I was beginning to think you had lost my number,” Gael replied.</p><p>There was something in the earnest response that had Booker grinning.</p><p>“No, I didn’t lose it. I was...”</p><p>“...Working the courage up?”</p><p>Booker laughed a little. “Something like that.”</p><p><em>Something <strong>exactly</strong> like that</em>.</p><p>“Well, I’m pleased you did,” came the reply, sounding genuine.</p><p>“Really?”</p><p>“Of course. Our conversation was cut short by my rude friends.”</p><p>Booker paused, his heart pounding so hard he was sure Gael would here it down the line.</p><p>“Is it a conversation you’d be interested in continuing?” He asked, more bravely than he felt.</p><p>“It is. Very much.” The smile in Gael's voice was clear as a bell.</p><p>A smile he felt creeping across his own face. “When are you free?” He asked.</p><p>“Saturday is good,” Gael said. “If that works for you?”</p><p>“It does.”</p><p>“Good! Do you know the BRO bar in the city?”</p><p>“I can find it.”</p><p>“Great! 7.30 pm okay?”</p><p>“Absolutely.”</p><p>“I’ll see you then. Looking forward to it.”</p><p>He was far too damned charming for his own good. “Me too.” Booker mumbled, casting a furtive glance around the forecourt, suddenly very aware of the looks of passers-by.</p><p>The phone went dead. Booker hung up, traipsed back to the bike, revving it to get going.</p><p>He wasn’t sure if he felt less or more nervous.</p>
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